Read Eight Pieces on Prostitution for Free Online Page B

tone, ‘Don’t laugh Missy! It’s not so weird!’
    She stands under one of the heavy branches that overhang the fence. Like everything else about the house, the trees are beautiful. She begins to think it strange that she never sees anyone about.
    Sophie’s flat is one of a long line fronting a busy street. If there were a neon sign out the front, there’d be nothing to distinguish it from a motel room, except that the agent might see the outside was kept cleaner; if he had to attract overnight custom, that is. He might hose the concrete down every now and then, and plant a few shrubs and bushes. When the sun’s high, it seems as though the walls and roof of her flat are shouting to it, ‘Come on down here! Burn me up!’ By three in the afternoon, Sophie would rather be anywhere than where she is, anywhere at all.
    The woman in the flat next to hers is Sophie’s friend. Her name is Mrs G. She has wide Polish cheekbones and a settled smile. Mrs G is a widow whose son used to live in Canberra. When he was alive, he always took her places in his car – the Fyshwick markets and all kinds of places. Sophie doesn’t know whether this was long ago, or just recently, since Mrs G is vague when it comes to time. She loves Melissa and talks to her in a mixture of languages which Sophie calls Ponglish.
    Sophie, Melissa and Mrs G catch the bus to Fyshwick markets and Sophie leaves Melissa in the act of reaching both arms up to a round ripe canteloupe. She says to Mrs G, ‘There’s a shop I want to take a peek at. Too awkward with the stroller. Meet you at the pet shop over there? I’ll hurry. Thanks.’
    Sophie approaches
Capital Delights
as a prowler might, a street walker of a different kind, a splinter of nervousness running up her spine. She’s already rung and asked if they need new girls.
    A computer place, a Sleep Doctor and a Pink Panther printers occupy the same cul de sac as the brothel. Small bushes ring the computer place, spiky Fyshwick bushes backing out of white pebbles with bits of black plastic showing through. It’s like the area around the flats, but cleaner, buildings huddled together as if apologising for taking up the space.
    Sophie takes a deep breath and rings the bell.
    â€˜New girls are always welcome,’ says the woman who opens the door. She has a cigarette voice with a deep crack in it somewhere.
    She shows Sophie inside and arranges herself on a tall bar stool behind a white-topped desk. ‘The best range of services in Canberra,’ she says.
    Sophie nods politely and says she can’t stay long. She hasn’t mentioned Melissa, and is nervous in case having a daughter will count against her.
    She’s told she can try out, Friday and Saturday nights for starters. Sophie says maybe just Friday night.
    â€˜Fine,’ says the woman, whose name is Mrs Dawson. She tells Sophie not to worry. An older girl will show her the ropes and she’ll be fine.
    Mrs Dawson has long wavy red hair and wears a low-cut blouse which shows the wrinkles round her breasts. She says that businessmen travelling interstate feel at home in Fyshwick, and especially at
Capital Delights
.
    â€˜What’ll I call you, love?’ she asks.
    â€˜Sophie. I prefer that to Sophia, which is my real name.’
    Mrs Dawson nods. Sophie can see that she’s trying not to smile. She can wear what she likes to work; she doesn’t have to wear lace nighties or suspender belts, or any other daggy stuff. The only thing is: ‘Some clients only want a G-string massage, so get yourself a G-string, love.’
    Everything at
Capital
is overdone, Sophie thinks, hurrying to the pet shop, from Mrs Dawson’s make-up to the red textured wallpaper, to the fountain in the foyer, to the Roman bath surrounded by ferns and tropical flowering plants, to the beds which are something else.
    During the week she buys a green silk G-string from a lingerie shop